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takes him less than two seconds to identify the German shepherd, then the Doberman pinscher. He stumbles on the Dogo Argentino, which he wouldn’t have put in the attack dog category, when there’s a knock at the door.
    “If that’s Christine coming back to say good-bye, you’re too late, old girl!” he said, turning up the TV. “You left me in a pickle and I’m not in the mood . . .” The person rings the doorbell. “I must be dreaming! People are beyond presumptuous. I really oughtta disconnect it. That damned bell is double trouble—I pay for the electricity so they can bug me . . .”
    “Hello?” a man’s voice calls out. “I’m sorry to bother you. Is anyone there? I’m your new neighbor.”
    Ferdinand sits up. How dare he? I’d keep a low profile if I were him!
    “Is anyone there?”
    Ferdinand stands and, via the peephole, learns who’s responsible for his day of torture. A man, that’s something anyway—there won’t be any high heels! Maybe forty years old, brown hair, a relatively soft voice. He’s wearing a green sweatshirt. The new neighbor doesn’t seem too awful.
    “Is anyone there? I just wanted to introduce myself. I just moved in upstairs, my name is Antoine and—”
    “Let me stop you right there. I think I’ve had my fill of introductions. You can go back home. I’ve heard enough of you for today. You, your baby, your furniture! Good-bye, sir.”
    Ferdinand watches his crestfallen neighbor, shoulders slumped, head back to the stairs. The old man returns to his armchair. The door upstairs slams. With all this nonsense, Ferdinand missed the rest of the categories in “Four in a Row.” Of course. It’s his favorite part. Couldn’t that damned neighbor have waited?

    Ferdinand decides to go to bed early. Too bad for the weekly late-night variety show, but in any case it’s always the same musical numbers, the same guests, the same jokes—and rarely funny for that matter. The kid stopped crying around 8:00 p.m. She must be sleeping now. Ferdinand resets his alarm. He has to recuperate. He turns out all the lights, and it takes him no more than five minutes to drift off and enjoy six hours of restorative sleep before the alarm goes off.
    Beep. Beep. Beep.
    Ferdinand feels fit as a fiddle. He goes into the living room, clears his wheeled serving cart, then sets down a dusty turntable that hasn’t been used in over twenty years. He rummages through a chest and pulls out an LP—his favorite. He pushes the whole thing toward his bedroom.
    He plugs in the device, positions the vinyl record, sets it turning, and lowers the needle. The device crackles, and all of a sudden, as if an orchestra had stormed Ferdinand’s bedroom, the booming voice of Frank Sinatra—a.k.a. Ol’ Blue Eyes—starts singing “Almost Like Being in Love.” Ferdinand smiles. Time seems to have leapt backward by close to sixty-five years. He loves this song, especially the beginning. He turns up the volume all the way and puts the turntable on top of his wardrobe, inches from the ceiling. Dust bunnies flutter above him.
    Ten, nine, eight . . . As he reaches five, he hears a baby begin to wail. Ferdinand sings along with Ol’ Blue Eyes and puts his whole heart into it. “I could swear I was falling!” He knows all the words and keeps time by tapping his foot with the same enthusiasm as Fred Astaire in Happy Feet.
    Overhead, a door opens. Heavy steps come to get the baby.
    “It’s three-oh-five in the morning, on the dot! Welcome, dear neighbors!” And Ferdinand starts singing even louder, “It’s almost . . . like bein’ . . . in . . . love!”

Chapter Fourteen
    Popped His Cherry
    For Ferdinand, that baby is the greatest of misfortunes. He despises, above all else, infants. For him, they are nothing but limitations, with the added bonus of utter ingratitude. They understand nothing, they cry, they always need something. You can never rest. And when they smile, they smile at strangers as